Page 17 of Handle Me

“Yes, Mr. Jeans and a T-shirt, they do,” she said in a huff.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you, I was just surprised.”

“Sometimes it’s like you live under a rock.” She drummed her fingernails on the center console thoughtfully. “You don’t read tabloids, no subscription boxes—you have heard of the internet, right?”

“That I’ve heard of.” I glanced up to check my mirrors, noticing a black Range Rover had joined us on the highway. My chest constricted even as I tried to shake it off. It didn’t mean anything to see another car on the road.

“But I don’t have a traditional job,” she continued. “I’m still looking for where I fit.”

“That sounds like a luxury.” The Range Rover switched lanes, gaining on us. I slowed down, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

“Well, I am worth twenty million pounds,” she said matter-of-factly. “That buys me some time to decide.”

I was still watching the SUV as her words hit me. I nearly drove off the road. The tire vibrated as it hit the shoulder and I jerked the wheel, pulling us back into our lane. “Twenty million pounds?”

Lola clutched my arm, a panicked squeal escaping her perfect map.

“I’ve got you,” I said casually, even though her touch left me feeling anything but.

She peeled her hands away, shaking her head like she was clearing it, and her give-no-fuck attitude returned. “Trust fund.” Her voice trembled slightly beneath her imperious mask. “Clara has one, too, but I don’t think she really needs it anymore.”

I had so many questions for her that I couldn’t decide where to start.

“Oh! Birmingham.” She pointed to a highway sign.

I’d never been so grateful to get off the road. But as I merged onto the exit, the Range Rover followed. “Shit.”

“What’s up?” Lola asked, looking around the interior cabin.

There was no use hiding it from her. My questions would have to wait. “That car is following us.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

LOLA

I strained against my seatbelt trying to get a look at the car Anders was talking about. Part of me wanted to laugh at him. But the truth was that I was royalty’s sister-in-law and he was royalty, even if the tabloids liked to attach the word bastard following that fact. I’d had a front-row seat to the paparazzi following my sister around London. But this felt different. Maybe it was because Anders was closer to being a playboy than prince charming.

“Which car?” I asked, peering out the window. Why did I find this exciting? Racing down the M6 while some random car followed us shouldn’t make my pulse speed up? But here I was, caught up in the moment.

“The Range Rover. It’s always a damn Range Rover,” he muttered. He jerked the Ferrari into the next lane and slowed down.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “They’re going to catch up with us!”

“That’s the point, boss.” As soon as the black car was parallel to us in the next lane, Anders rolled down my window. The Range Rover kept its tinted windows raised, making it impossible to see inside. Anders lifted his hand and saluted them.

“Anders!” I batted his hand down, knocking it into my lap.

“Hey, I was working on my public relations,” he grumbled. He brushed the back of his hand down my thigh before he returned it to the steering wheel.

I caught my breath, trying to keep a shiver at bay. His bare-knuckle had barely grazed my leather pants, but it had been enough to capture my body’s full attention.

Anders said something under his breath, and I shook myself to focus. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said in a gruff tone.

I pinned a no-nonsense gaze on him. He could try to avoid talking to me. He could try to hide behind whatever inexplicable physical attraction we both felt toward each other. He could try a lot of things. But if he thought I would just lose interest after I asked a question, he was going to learn quickly that wouldn’t work.

“Is this just normal?” he asked, smacking his steering wheel. “Having bodyguards and publicists and no life of my own?”